"Hom," says the lil fella, "before thou begin to play, clear the kitchen for me,—cheers an' stools, everything away. Make a place for me to step out to the music, man."
"Aw, I'll do that for thee, too," says the tailor.
He cleared the kitchen floor, and then he struck up "Tune y wheeyl vooar."
In a crack the lil fella bounced from his cradle on to the floor with a "Chu!" and began flying round the kitchen. "Go it Hom,—face your partner,—heel and toe does it. Well done, Hom,—jog your elbow, man."
Hom plays faster and faster, till me lad was jumping as high as the table.
With a "Chu!" up goes his foot on top of the dresser, and "Chu!" then on top of the chimlee piece, and "Chu!" bang against the partition, then he was half flying, half footing it round the kitchen, turning and going round that quick that it put a reel in Hom's head to be looking at him. Then he was whirling everything round for a clear space, even Hom himself, who by degrees gets up on the table in the corner and plays wilder and wilder, as the whirling jig grew madder and madder.
"M' Yee!" says the tailor, throwing down the fiddle, "I mus' run, thou're not the chile that was in the cradle. Are thou? "
"Houl' man! thou're right enough," says the lil fella. "Strike up for me, make has'e, make has'e, man,—more power to your elbow."
"Whush!" said the tailor, "here's Herself coming." The dancing ceased. The child gave a hop, skip, and jump into the cradle.
"Get on with thee sewing, Hom; don't say a word," says the lil fella, covering himself up in the clothes till nothing was left of him to be seen except his eyes which keeked out like a ferret's.
When Herself came in the house, the tailor, all of a tremble, was sitting cross-legged on the round table and his specs on his nose and letting on that he was busy sewing; the child in the cradle was shouting and sweeling [squealing] as usual. "What in all the earthly worl' . . .! But it's the quare stitching, altogether, there's been goin' on here, an' me out. An' how thou can see thee needle in that dark corner, Hom Bridson, let alone sew, it beats me," says
